Antivenom (Peterick)

I. saturday: mornings and phone calls

***A/N:  Nobody asked for it but I did it anyway***

DISCLAIMER:  The events depicted in this fic did not actually happen.  I own none of the band members (I do own the mayor, you can go ahead and steal him if you want).

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It all starts with a phone call.

In Pete's experience, a lot of bad things start with a phone call, so that should probably have been his first sign. Got a body in Naperville. Police found the missing girl's blood in a closet. A bank got shot up, three dead so far, you should head over ASAP. I'm sorry, Pete, but we're just not right for each other.

Sometimes, though, you get sloppy. Sometimes you stop keeping track, and these times are always the times that, in the grand scheme of things, make the most difference. And sometimes, as in this particular case, you're too tired to give a fuck.

He wakes up at seven or so on a Saturday morning to the sound of a phone going off. He's not sure if it's his. It doesn't matter, because beside him Patrick's grumbling, "Your problem," and rolling over, clearly in no mood to sacrifice his well-deserved rest for another dead body or missing jewel or corrupt corporate executive on the lam. Pete doesn't blame him—their last case, which concerned the apprehension and arrest of one Courtney Love, ex-musician and notorious cult leader, had everyone pulling all-nighters and operating solely on caffeine and adrenaline. Even Dallon was exhausted by the end of it, and he only had to deal with the corpses.

Grunting, Pete rolls over and reaches for the phone. Based on the size and feel, he's pretty sure it's Patrick's. He answers it anyway.

Big mistake: "Agent Wentz," says Travie—er, Special Agent McCoy. He's in charge of FBI Chicago Division, and he's basically their boss. He also happens to be one of Pete and Patrick's close friends, which makes this, the fact that he caught Pete in possession of Patrick's phone, all the more embarrassing. "Please tell me I have the pleasure of speaking to you while you're fully clothed."

He sounds entirely too smug, and Pete curses under his breath. He's got half a mind to flip Travie off, except a) as established, Travie's his boss, and b) employer-employee relationship implications aside, it's not like Travie would be able to see him. "Sorry, Trav—uh, sir," he says, biting back his scathing retort (the time-honored and perfectly eloquent fuck you, in case you were wondering). "I, uh—I assume you'd like to speak with Patrick—I mean, Agent—Agent Stumph?" Fuck, he's too tired for this.

"If it's not too much trouble," Travie replies smoothly, and damn, he's too considerate for his own fucking good. Pete can't even manage to stay mad at him for ten seconds. "Tell him to take his time. He knows where to reach me."

"Whuzzit?" Patrick mumbles, shifting in bed. He stretches out an arm, smacking into Pete's chest, then pats around Pete's lap blindly, like he's looking for something. Pete stifles a laugh. "Who's—hm—who's callin'?"

"One sec, Trav.  'ere, talk to your boss." Pete hands the phone to Patrick, who takes it and squints confusedly before pressing it to his ear.

"'ullo?"

Pete lies back down and scrubs a hand over his face. There's some dried-up crusty shit in his eyes and he really needs a drink—preferably coffee. The sun isn't even fully out yet and it's still too bright for his liking. He yawns and burrows back under the sheets, too stimulated to go back to sleep but too drowsy to fully function, and either way unwilling to get out of bed. Instead he closes his eyes and listens to Patrick's sleepy, hoarse grunts of "uh-huh" and "yes sir" and "sure thing" and "no sir, not a problem" and "yes, okay, thank you"; he pictures him nodding along and doing that thing where he licks his lips while he's thinking, the one that always makes Pete go weak in the knees. Already Pete feels his heart flutter.

The conversation eventually drops into silence. Pete hears Patrick set the phone down, then feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist; a nose presses into the back of his neck. "What'd Travie say?" he asks.

"None of your damn business," Patrick murmurs. His lips brush against Pete's back when he talks. Pete shivers.

"I call bullshit," he says. His mouth feels a little like mush; Christ, why is he so tired? "You sound grumpy."

"Fine," Patrick relents, his tone doing nothing to counter the accusation of grumpiness. "He wants me to meet with him later."

"Is that it? Don't leave me hangin' like that, 'Trick, you know I hate cliffhangers."

"Asshole," Patrick says. "He said the mayor would be there."

"Oh-ho-ho, your favorite." Pete smirks. Personally, he has no problem with Mayor Sinclair (the guy's a little slick, but what politician isn't), but Patrick—well, for lack of a better word, Patrick hates the mayor. Absolutely hates the mayor. Then again, Patrick hates most corrupt politicians, but then again again, not to the degree he hates Sinclair. Like, he's actually gone out of his way to give the finger to Sinclair's campaign posters, and that's saying something. Pete's pretty sure Patrick would rather personally shake the hand of George W. Bush and invite him to dinner at their apartment than even spare a smile for Sinclair. "I'm so jealous. Why don't I get to meet with the mayor?" he quips lazily, fully aware that at this point he's poking a bear. Granted, that bear is 5'4, but he's also a trained sharpshooter with a solid right hook. Pete is treading dangerous waters here.

Thankfully, Patrick doesn't kick his ass. He does snort sardonically, his exhale warm against Pete's neck. "Yeah, I'm the luckiest damn horseshoe crab in this fucking ocean," he deadpans.

Pete grins. "Thought you said you'd die before you used any of my—what'd you call 'em?—completely unnecessary and nonsensical metaphors," he teases.

"I believe the term I used was pretentious," Patrick replies, in the vaguely haughty tone of voice he uses to lecture people (usually Joe) on music. "Then again, I also said I'd never date a coworker, so what do I know."

Pete laughs this time, loudly, and squirms a little in Patrick's arms, rolls over so they're face-to-face. Patrick's trying his damnedest to look peeved, but he eventually sighs and gives in, reaching up to stroke Pete's hair.

"So," Pete says, "why do you hate Sinclair so much?"

"Do I really need a reason?" Patrick sighs. "I don't know, call it gut instinct or whatever. He just—he rubs me the wrong way."

"So—what, you get, like, acid reflux when you hear his name?" Patrick snorts again and rolls his eyes. "No, babe, I'm serious. You gotta tell Dallon or someone so you can, like, get that shit checked out."

"Smartass."

"Yeah," Pete says, cupping Patrick's jaw and leaning in for the kiss, "but I'm your smartass."